Dean, eyes closed, let the cold water of the shower flow over his body; trying, unsuccessfully, to numb the ache, he felt deep within. He had been in the shower for half an hour at least, in an attempt to delay the start of a new day, where continued failure seemed inevitable. Nearly a full day's research, the day before, and the boys had nothing to show for it. Ultimately, though, Dean knew the day must start, despite how he felt, and begrudgingly he turned the shower off and went about the task of getting dressed.
Dean slowed as he approached the closed door to the room where Hope's body lay in stasis. He had not been inside, and, he thought, he could not go inside, to see her shell. Quickly he sped up as if he were afraid that somehow the room would draw him in if he dawdled. Ahead, lay the open doorway to Sam's room. Dean paused here and looking in, he could see Sam, sound asleep, on the bed. Soft rumblings of his 'near' snoring rolled out of the room. Dean's heart ached a little more, seeing his brother looking so peaceful there on the bed; when he knew that he would soon wake again, into this living nightmare in which they found themselves.
"Dean?" Dean's head whipped around at the sound of his name, a sad frown flashed across his face as he saw the source of that call. For a minute, he stood looking back at the person in the hallway; unable to speak, he simply shook his head and turned slowly on the spot before walking away in the opposite direction. Sam, asleep on the bed, had bolted awake at hearing someone call Dean's name and now, sitting up on his elbows, he watched Dean turn and walk away. As the footsteps faded down the hallway, another set approached and within seconds Castiel stood in Sam's doorway. Sam sighed, instantly feeling guilty, and pulled himself out of the bed, watching Castiel as he did so. When he was upright, a dejected Castiel asked, "Why didn't you tell me Dean was back?"
"Cass…" A haunted look on his face, Sam did not want to hurt Castiel; but shaking his head, he did just that, "Dean didn't want me too." A stolid Castiel stood in the doorway until Sam could not handle the lack of emotion anymore, "Cass…" he pleaded. "I'm fine." came Castiel's stoic response.
"As if" Sam blurted, "Look… I know you are hurting. That… he hurt you… but you have to think about it from Dean's point of view. We all lost Hope, but Dean is bound to feel it more. What… I knew her for a month or so, and don't get me wrong, I loved her… and there is a massive hole in my heart that will never go away… we are family and the amount of time you get means nothing when family, is involved. You… you knew her longer, sure, but really, most of that time, you believed her to be dead… and ok I get it; she was your charge and you felt… feel… a strong connection to her and a sense of responsibility… but Dean… Dean had her all his life… even if he did not know it… their connection was…" Sam paused, squeezing his eyes shut against the fresh pain that washed over him as he thought about something Dean had told him late last night, "Dean told me," Sam opened his eyes to look at Castiel, "that all he felt now, was empty. Hope is… was… the feeling inside him that drove him on. When the chips were down, or the world was about to end, Dean always found a way to continue, to push me, you, us, to find…" Sam's mouth evolved into a tight smile as he realised the irony of what he was about to say, "to find hope. He kept on fighting, no matter what… because he felt that drive within himself, that he knew, somehow, someone out there was on his side; they wanted him to never give up, to muster the courage to face everything in front of him and keep on swinging, but now, he says that that's… gone."
Castiel's head hung low as Sam finished his story. "And… that's my fault…" Castiel whispered to himself, "Cass…" implored Sam, moving towards him; but it was too late; Castiel had taken flight, leaving a wistful looking Sam standing alone in the middle of the room.
Now it was Sam's turn in the shower. He too preferred the cold water today. Just like Dean, Sam was subconsciously trying to wash away the pain that had chained itself to his heart. Unable to budge it, even a little, he eventually gave up; turning the shower off, he began preparing himself for the day ahead.
Walking up the stairs, between the war room and the library, Sam's resolve, to talk to Dean regarding how he had treated Castiel, almost cracked. However, he gathered himself together and approached Dean, who was sitting at the second table, the only one that stood upright, inside the messy room. "Dean," Sam began before stopping hastily; only because of the way Dean's shoulders slumped forward; all Sam could see in front of him, was the shell of his brother. Destroyed by the loss of his twin. "Don't say it, Sammy… I know… I promise. I know." Dean's body stayed slumped over as he raised his hands up; propping his head up against the weight of the world that rested on his shoulders. He sat that way for some time, while Sam stood at the head of the table unsure what to say, or do; nothing seemed appropriate. Sam was at a loss as he frantically thought through each response he might give and the outcomes that might result from what he said. Dean spoke first, breaking the crippling silence that plagued the air. "I know… I should have talked to Cass, I just…" sighing heavily, Dean buried his head further in his hands, "I don't blame him. Not anymore. It is just… He is a reminder, everywhere and everything I look at around here is a reminder. It is not enough that our sister's body is lying on a bed in a room, just down the hallway… but then, I am so lucky, that I get reminded of what we lost, again, and again. I just did not want that… not first thing today… I'm sorry."
"Yeah, well… next time…"
Dean lifted his head from his hands and looked up at Sam, "Yeah… Sammy, next time, I will play nice. Nicer… hey um… you, ah, have a fight with a lawnmower?" Dean was brushing his thumb and forefinger along his own chin; Sam was now somewhat clean-shaven, with a few minor nicks and cuts still oozing a bit of blood. "Shut up…" Sam cursed at his brother. Dean raised his eyebrows, "Yeah well, if it is all the same with you… I would rather research."
The brothers researched all through the day and well into the night, stopping only to use the bathroom or to get food and alcohol. Lots of alcohol. Even though they had been at it for hours, they had barely put a dent in the number of books now available to them, from the secret room's shelves. It was well past midnight when Sam fell asleep; his head nodded slowly towards his chest before his body surrendered to the call for sleep; slumping across the Chesterfield sofa in the centre of the secret room. This is where Dean found him a couple of minutes later when he came in from the library looking for another book; the book he had just finished with was as useless as all the rest. Dean took the book Sam was holding and placed it on the coffee table in front of the sofa. He then lifted Sam's legs up so that they were on the couch. Even though the sofa was a three seater, Sam looked more than a little squashed, lying there, but Dean did not have the heart to wake him, just to send him to his own bed. Dean stood watching his brother; Sam went from that first peaceful slumber, straight to nightmare wonderland. He started to mumble in his sleep as his head moved restlessly to the side as his hands clenched and trembled, living whatever it was he saw in his mind. At first, Dean was uncomfortable, feeling as if he was going to get in trouble for eavesdropping without permission, but soon after, Dean could not draw himself away from what he was hearing.
Eventually, what he was hearing, took its toll. Dean struggled for breath, hyperventilating, as he started to piece together the little bits of the puzzle that were Sam's dream rants. Dean teared from the room, looking for an escape, which would not come; this knowledge, this understanding was just too much. Quickly he ran up the stairs from the war room and yanking the heavy door to the bunker open, he charged outside, somehow hoping the cool air of the night would help him catch his breath. Bent over at the middle, his hands on his knees for support, Dean sucked in each breath, trying frantically to calm down. To put the anger back away, back in deep, where it belonged. After some time, Dean's breathing returned to normal and he pushed himself up, looking up to the heavens. "You are… un-freaken-believable… You know that… Hasn't this family suffered enough, haven't Sam and I… You selfish bastard…" Dean screamed at the sky. Tears began to well, and then fall, silently, as Dean stood there looking up.
"No… No… you know what? No…" Dean shook his head from side to side, swatting away the tears that refused to stop falling, "I am not going to cry anymore – not over things you did or didn't do… and you!" Suddenly, it seemed as if Dean was talking to someone else; his finger pointed to the sky, stressing every word he said, "You are something else altogether. You sit there, doing nothing, just moving your little pawns over the board. You let this happen, you let all of this happen" Dean's arms went wide as if he was trying to include everything around him, "Everything that has ever gone wrong in my life – you let happen. I don't understand why people put any faith in you; you don't help, you certainly don't care. You took her from me, from Sam, from Cass. After everything, we have done for you, for this world, your world… you still… took her from us. Well, that's it. I'm done. I am finally done. I'm going to get Hope out of hell if it kills me and then I'm done. No more helping others, no more trying to save the world – just… done. You can stick it – are you hearing me – you can stick it all."
Finished with his tirade, Dean turned and sauntered back inside; lighter now, having removed a great weight from his shoulders. At the bottom of the stairs, he turned left and made his way back to the library; re-invigorated by the night air, Dean felt ready to continue researching for a few more hours. At the top of the stairs, he stopped short, "Dean." Dean shook his head slightly at the person who dared to utter his name; with a dour look on his face, he calmly said, "Go… Away…" The man moved towards Dean, from the far end of the library, "Come now Dean, is that any way to treat a guest. Besides, I got the impression you had some things you wanted to tell me." The voice was pleasant enough, but it riled Dean up; trying desperately to keep his cool, Dean responded, in a cool and calming tone, "I've said everything I wanted to say… Chuck… I have nothing else to add."
"Sounded to me, like you were giving up."
"Not giving up. No. First, I'm going to save Hope and then I am going to get on with my life. Make sure Sam and Cass are good and just… live. That's not giving up."
"You would turn your back on all those that need your help." God asked, his questioning eyes drilling into Dean.
A darkness took up residence on Dean's face, shooting out from his eyes, as he stared at God, "That is rich, coming from you." He stormed, "How dare you come down here and tell me I'm giving up on them – when you gave up on them long ago."
"I have helped you, Dean."
"Yeah, well not enough!" Dean fumed, the rage exploding from his gut, he turned away from Chuck, fearful of what he felt prepared to do. "You need to leave…" he pleaded, calm returning to his voice.
"I can't. Not before, you promise to keep working, to keep helping others. The world needs your help, now. This latest threat… is dire. You must help them." God commanded.
"Oh… Come on!" Dean roared; his jaw was set, his brow furrowed in, breathing through clenched teeth, he tried to remain in control. "You cannot seriously be asking me this. You know what this threat is. How 'dire' it is? Stop it, then. Just snap your fingers and end them all."
"I can't do that Dean, you know…"
"Yeah yeah, 'I don't like to get my poor little hands dirty'" Dean was mocking Chuck now. He still had not turned around to face him; couldn't bring himself to look at him, he hated him so much right now, "'I made this world, but I don't give, enough damn, to do anything for it – I just want to watch poor Sammy and Dean twist themselves up in knots trying to do what's right…' Well boo hoo, Chuck. Like I said before – you can stick it." Dean took in a deep breath before continuing, "Now leave… Before I pick up that sword over there, turn around, and drive it through your chest."
The room was silent.
Dean's shoulders rose and fell with each breath.
Eventually, Dean turned around.
Dean's jaw dropped at the sight before him.
Chuck was gone.
The library was spotless. Every table, chair, book, weapon, returned to its original place. Every broken item, fixed as if nothing out of the sorts had occurred in this room.
On the second table, stood two piles of books, one to the right of the table, the other to the left.
One book sat alone at the head of the table.
Dean moved towards the first pile, reaching out to touch the book that lay on top. A puzzled look moved across his face before he took his hand back and moved to the other side of the table. This time, pain flashed across his face as he reached out and touched the top book; he removed his hand quickly as if scalded by the book. "Sonofabitch…"